


10 o'Clock Is Not Late

by Reneia



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood Gulch Chronicles, Canon Compliant, Comedy, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, it's just kinda soft guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneia/pseuds/Reneia
Summary: Every night, Leonard Church sits outside Blue Base and stares up at the sky.





	10 o'Clock Is Not Late

In sharp contrast to the ten scorching hours of a Blood Gulch noon, the night brings with it a bone-deep chill that even space-worthy armor issued by the UNSC has trouble keeping out.

That doesn't stop Church from stumbling outside late every night and crashing to the ground just outside the base's walls.

As per usual, he sits there, back to the wall, for a standard half-minute before carefully removing his helmet, running his fingers through his shaggy hair, and tipping his head back to drink in the crisp air like a man dying of thirst. Then, he opens his eyes and stares into the depths of the star-speckled expanse of sky he doesn't know. This half of the gulch is lit by the soft blue glow of the base in lieu of a moon. 

At night, everything is still. He could almost trick himself into thinking it's peaceful, if not for the tank not fifty feet from where he sits, or the bullet holes in the wall, the gunpowder stuck in the unreachable crevices of his armor. So maybe not peaceful, but quiet. Enough that he can sit back and relax. Think about things he wants to think about, or not think at all. 

A sudden crash from above makes him reconsider the quiet thing, too. The deep, calming breath he had been cultivating hisses out in what feels suspiciously like a tense sigh. Church heaves himself to his feet, the small bit of calm he'd collected rapidly souring. 

"Who the hell is up there," he says shortly. "Reds, if it's one of you, wait for morning, for fuck's sake. Lopez, just--just get the hell down. Tucker, if it's you, I swear, I can and will make you run around this whole fucking canyon in the morning. Twice."

"Um," a small, timid voice that undoubtedly belongs to Caboose answers. "Help, please?" 

"Dammit, Caboose," he sighs, and trudges up to the roof. 

The scene before him was nothing unusual, by blue team standards. Caboose had somehow gotten his boot stuck in a bucket, and tripped. Where he got the bucket, Church has no clue. The more he thinks about it, he doesn't remember ever actually seeing a bucket around the base. He decides to stop thinking about it, because caring about things past 2100 hours isn't his job. 

He almost turns around and leaves, but something stops him. It can't be Caboose's weak protests, because those have never stopped him before. But it also can't be guilt, because he doesn't have that. He decides to stop thinking about it, and instead heave a sigh and stretch out a hand. Caboose takes it, grip firm as ever, and heaves himself to his feet. Church tries to hide the tremor in his muscles, because holy _ shit _ is Caboose heavy, but predictably fails. Caboose either doesn't notice or doesn't care, less occupied with finding exploitable faults in his so-called "best friend" and more with beaming a broad white smile at him. 

"Hi, Church!" he says at full volume. His leg rattles conspicuously. The bucket flies off, hitting the dirt at least a hundred feet away. Church blinks. 

"It's too late for this," he mutters. "Alright, first off, quiet voice. Seriously, people are sleeping. Second, you gonna explain why you're still awake? It's late."

Caboose frowns. He stares at Church blankly for a moment before untucking his helmet from under his arm, putting it on, leaving it there for three seconds, and taking it back off. "It's 10:15," he informs him. 

"Yeah, no shit, Caboose. Late."

"Church, that is not late," he says, puzzled. Church recognizes that this isn't a battle worth fighting, and settles for crossing his arms.

"Okay, fine, not late. Why are you up?" 

Caboose shrugs. "Yeah, I never go to sleep this early," he says. There's a pensive set to his brow. A chill breeze ruffles his curls. Church raises an eyebrow. "My brain goes too fast. I can't go to sleep when you tell us to." He dips his head, now looking apologetic. "So, yeah, I come outside and I walk around, and it helps me calm down! And that's why I'm up." 

Well, that sounds too familiar for comfort, so he can't really say anything. Hypocrisy is his day job, he decides. So he just shakes his head, releases the tension in his shoulders, and says, "You know what? Fuck it. Follow me," and vaults himself over the edge of the base, ignoring the quiet "Um," behind him. His boots, made to protect him from drops much higher than the ten feet from the top of Blue Base to the ground, absorb the shock easily. He doesn't even stumble, and feels pretty pleased about it. 

A second thud behind him alerts him to the presence of his teammate. He doesn't turn to face it, instead casting his gaze up at the sky. The stars have shifted, though minimally. The mild bullshit-induced headache that had been brewing all day cools into numb, easily ignorable static. He closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose. He can almost sense Caboose standing behind him, arm half-outstretched, a quizzical tilt to his brows. He radiates hesitant confusion. 

"Church?" There it is. Church backs up to the wall and presses his palms flat against its rough surface. "What... are you doing?"

He slides down, back to the knees to chest position he was sitting in earlier. "Rookie, I have no fucking clue," he confesses. Caboose takes a few careful steps towards him, indecision written all over his face. He eventually makes up his mind, though, and very gingerly takes a cross-legged seat beside him. Church scoffs. "C'mon, you act like I'm gonna bite your head off. It's late."

  


"It's not--"

  


"Listen, Caboose. The more you say that, the later it gets, and the closer you get to being wrong."

Caboose pointedly looks away, still visibly very confused, but more comfortable. Church tilts his head back against the wall. 

"So why are you still awake?" 

Church might have sighed, or scowled, or told him to piss off earlier in the day, but instead he shrugs. "Not tired," he says. 

"Why are you out here?" Caboose says. He shrugs again.

"It's quiet, I guess. I don't know. Easy to think." Something that's uncomfortably reminiscent of an emotion bubbles up within him, clawing at his insides. Fear of vulnerability? Ah, shit, it's gotten to the hour where he can pin down what he's feeling with unnerving accuracy. Ah, _ shit, _ it's gotten to the hour where he doesn't bother hiding everything he's feeling behind a mask. Plus, his helmet is off. Shit. "Don't look at me like that," he says sharply. "It's not like I come out here every night to think about..." he trails off, thinking. "Emotions," he finishes lamely, after a tense ten-second period in which he could physically feel Caboose growing more concerned. Shit. 

“...Oookay,” Caboose says, very obviously not believing him but being kind enough to refrain from commenting. He looks around, rubbing a piece of dry grass between his fingers. “Um. The sky is… full of stars. They’re nice.” 

“The stars are very nice,” Church grudgingly agrees. Wow, this is awkward. It suddenly strikes him that he’s never really had an actual conversation with his teammate. While that doesn’t really _ bother _him, it makes this situation in particular very uncomfortable. 

But when he sneaks a glance beside him, Caboose doesn’t appear to share his discomfort. There’s a faint, content curve to his lips. His eyes are closed, brow smooth. Church frowns and stares back ahead. Two can play at that game, he decides, and closes his eyes. 

He doesn’t know how long they sit there in the dim hazy glow of blue base, drinking in the crisp air with their helmets off, but he does know he’s inches away from dropping into a dead sleep when Caboose’s head falling onto his shoulder nearly gives him a heart attack. 

“Oh, ffff--” he grumbles, shoving it off. For a few seconds, it almost looks stable. But then, his whole body sways, slowly toppling toward him. “Fuck,” he wheezes, bracing himself against the ground and preparing to catch his full body weight. 

Usually, at this point, he’d say fuck it, shake Caboose awake, and snap at him to go back to his room. But this time, something stops him. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s still half asleep and his brain is hardly functioning, or maybe the fact that when he fixes an angry glare on Caboose’s peaceful, slumbering face, he notices for the first time how fucking _ young _the kid is--no older than 19, he swears--or the purple bruises a lack of rest has left under his eyes. He heaves a sigh, and settles for straining to push him back upright. 

He ends up having to lean against him to counterbalance the dead weight. Which, strangely, doesn’t bother him all that much. Giving a shit is his day job, he decides, and closes his eyes. 

\---

When Tucker skids out of the base in the morning howling with laughter, Church makes him run around the canyon no less than five times, and doesn’t bother to hide his smug grin when he comes back riddled with scorch marks. 

  
  
  



End file.
